I need to start this post off by saying that when I say “ghetto”, I am by no means trying to insult anyone. Thestory I’m about to tell you is not being told in order to offend someone who lives in or near an actual ghetto. I use the term ghetto very loosely. So far I have yet to get my ass kicked for using this term. According to the internet, ghetto is defined as an area the Jewish residents were forced to live by the Nazis. I am not referring to this historical reference, though I think that the supplies in that area were probably about as good as the ones I had on hand to finish the job. In addition to using the term “ghetto”, my husband has asked me not to tell this story. TS big guy, it’s a great tale.

Picture this. Father’s Day. Husband and father of my children is hungry for breakfast. I really wanted to take him out to breakfast as I am not really good at preparing this particular meal, however, funding was slim on this particular Sunday. I decided to get on the Bontrager Race Light, total classic ride straight out of Santa Cruz, California. I almost hopped the local trail that takes me from my doorstep to the grocery store but I realized that I don’t have a trail pass. I know, odd, huh? I also saw one of the rangers checking for them, so I had to go through town instead. This isn’t a big deal. Really, it isn’t. Anyways, as I was swooping through town and feeling like a million bucks, I realized that my front wheel was not turning! I got through the ride doing motorcycle turns, the big lean.

I got home and made a perfectly horrible breakfast. Seriously, I would much rather cook dinner, though that is another post all together. After I cleaned up the inedible mess that I had concocted, we had a perfectly lovely day. Later that night I told Billy Biker Boy that I was having some issues with the bike. We took the headset apart and the ball bearings were rusted solid. SOL-ID. They weren’t moving. No game. Bill then starts trying to figure out how to get another headset. However, the prized Bontrager has a 1 1/8″ post, so it would probably have to be ordered. Damn. Bike would be out of commission, not to mention, we couldn’t budget going to breakfast that morning, how were we going to swing a new freaking special order headset?

The answer was there sitting boldly like a beacon of hope on the garage shelf. Bill tried to swear me to secrecy, but I couldn’t take that. I have to tell you what I did. I took the new can of WD-40 (Water Displacement Batch 40) and soaked the hell out of those ball bearings. Wipe and repeat. Wipe and repeat. Wipe and repeat times 15. I used a ton of that new bottle and guess what. It worked. It’s going to hold me over until I can score something new. I would love to test something out! Anyways, I know. Not such a great practice to get into, but a girl’s gotta ride, right?

Please don’t send me the emails about how “sacreligious” of me to use WD-40 on a bike part blah blah blah. Under any other circumstance, I would have run out immediately and ordered a new one. My weekend wasn’t going that way. That and it was 10:30 on a Sunday night. Our shops close at insanely early, especially on a Sunday. So, there you have it. Ghetto Fix Job of the Year. Good thing my husband doesn’t know how to read, huh?

If any of you are tuning into the Tour day France, check out either my site or Sara’s site for more commentary on that.

Peace Out
bk